What nonsense. They had a plan, she and Caleb. He was not staying here. She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but Haven interjected, looking as though he might do Caleb severe harm. “I assure you we will be no such thing. And you are not welcome here.”
She’d been certain Caleb wasn’t setting foot at Highley again, until that moment. And then it became a point of pride. Just as everything between she and Malcolm always had been. “He stays if I wish it.”
“You’ve wished quite enough, Seraphina. I’m not of a mind to continue to coddle you like a child. There’s no room for him.”
“Like a child?” To whom, precisely, did he think he was speaking?
“Oh, now you’ve done it, Duke,” said Caleb.
Sera turned on him and raised a finger. “You tread upon very thin ice, Calhoun.” Caleb spread his hands wide and she returned her attention to Malcolm. “There are a dozen rooms for him.”
“They are under construction,” he said.
She smirked. “Then he may share my room.”
Sera might have considered the twitch in Haven’s jaw signaling his fury a proper win in their battle, but she could not celebrate it, because it was punctuated by a collective gasp from the hallway beyond. When she turned to the sound, it was to discover a collection of wide eyes watching from several feet away.
“Well, this is already the best country house party I’ve ever attended,” Sesily said, large slab of beef in hand. After handing the meat to Caleb with a whispered “For your eye,” she turned to the rest of the women. “Don’t you agree?”
“I most certainly do not,” said Mrs. Mayhew. It was always Mrs. Mayhew, it seemed. “This is utterly improper.”
“Oh, please,” Sera said, exasperated by the misplaced pompousness. “Then you may go, Mrs. Mayhew. But you won’t, will you? Because you want a dukedom as much as any other mother in London. And this is the closest you’ll get to one.”
Mrs. Mayhew shut her mouth.
“Now. As I remain mistress of Highley until one of your daughters assumes the position, I must insist you find your chambers and settle in. I very much look forward to seeing you for luncheon. Seline, dear?”
Her sister immediately leapt into action.
As the assembly filed further into the manor house, Sera turned and stared down her husband. “He stays.”
“He is not welcome.”
“He is standing right here,” Caleb said.
“Now do you prefer ‘the American’?” Sesily asked.
Caleb grinned. “You know, I might. I’m happy to stay, Duchess. But who is going to deal with your man? Not that I couldn’t,” he rushed to add. “I’m in fine fettle.”
Haven was not paying attention to anyone but Sera, though. He approached, coming close enough to unsettle her.
But she did not feel unsettled. She felt something else, entirely.
Her heart thrummed and she met his gaze with pride before answering her friend. “I am going to deal with him.”
Haven watched her for a long moment, making her feel as though she were the only person on earth. Finally, he spoke. “It’s going to cost you dearly.”
“Of course it will,” she said. “That is the game we play.”
She surprised him, but he recovered almost immediately. He did not look away when he spoke to Caleb and Sesily. “Leave us.”
The words sent a panic through Sera.
Or perhaps it was a thrill.
“Uhh.” Sesily did not seem to know what to do.
“Duchess?” Nor did Caleb.
Sera was not backing down. Without looking at them, she spoke. “Sesily, please see Caleb to a room in the family quarters.”
“No,” Haven negotiated, strong and firm, all ducal power. “Fourth floor. West wing. On the end.”
As far from her chambers as possible. She smirked. “I am able to both climb stairs and traverse corridors, husband.”
He ignored the words, instead repeating himself. “Leave us.” Sesily and Caleb looked to her, and Haven’s irritation came on a growl. “Call off your dogs, wife.”
She nodded, and they followed the direction, Sesily closing the door behind them with a quiet snick. Sera inhaled deeply, willing herself calm enough—strong enough—for whatever was to come. “And now we are alone. Be careful, husband, or you shall set tongues to wagging. The mother of your future wife won’t care for the appearance that we remain . . . sympathetic.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
For a moment, she believed him. But she knew better. It was a pretty lie, but a lie just the same. She faced it with all the strength she could muster. “Nonsense. You’ve always cared what the world thinks.”
He lifted a hand then, and her breath caught in her chest at the anticipation of his touch. And then he was touching her, his warm fingers finding purchase on her cheek, as though they belonged there.
She exhaled at the heat of him. The strength.
He exhaled, as well. Long and wonderfully ragged, as though he were as ravaged by feeling as she was.
As though he were ravaged worse.
She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to lean into the warm cradle of his palm. Please, she begged silently, to whomever might be listening. Please, let him be ravaged worse.
Because even now, years later, after the irreparable events in their past, she could not help but be drawn to him, this man whom she had once loved so thoroughly.
“I did care,” he said, and his voice was ragged, like wheels on gravel. “I once cared too much what they thought. And now, I seem to care too little. I seem to care only what you think.”
She couldn’t resist looking at him and, as ever, she was instantly in his thrall. She shook her head, barely. Enough for him to see. “Mal,” she whispered.
“What is it, Angel?” His whisper tempted her like nothing she’d ever experienced as he leaned closer. “I shall give you anything you ask. I have never been able to refuse you.”
It wasn’t true. There had been a time when she’d begged him to forgive her. When she’d ached for him to believe her. And he had refused.
But she was no longer that girl, and he was not that boy. And now, he promised not to refuse her, and she found she could not refuse him, either. It was her turn to lift her hand. Her turn to set palm to cheek. Her turn to ravage.
And she did, feeling more powerful than ever when he exhaled, loving the edge of breath that whipped over lips like memory. As though she’d burned him. And she might have. They’d always been oil and flame. Why not let it happen? Just once? Just for a moment? Just to see if the combustion remained.
She leaned up to him. Or he leaned down. It did not matter.
He was whispering at her lips, and she did not know if he spoke to her or to a higher power. “Forgive me,” he said. Whom was he asking? For what?
She found she did not care.
The kiss unlocked her, breaking her open, letting light and air into the dark, dank places in her. It thieved the protection she had built over months and years, casting it out and leaving her with nothing to keep him away.
And still, she did not care.